Plot Bunnies of Doom
by Lightning4119
Summary: Every sugar-induced, cracked-out plot bunny or one-shot thats made its way into my head and survived long enough to be put into the files. M for varied content, mainly profanity.
1. Eternal Life Ain't All It's Cracked Up

Description: Yet another sugar-induced plot bunny.

Intro: Harry gets a visit from Nicholas Flamel after the Stone is destroyed and finds out a few things about eternal life.

Harry could see a glint of gold above him and reached out, thinking it was the Snitch. However, the glint turned into a pair of gold-framed glasses, and Harry ended up nearly punching his headmaster in the nose. The old man jerked backwards, toppling off the chair he was on and landing on the floor.

"Was that really necessary, Harry?" Dumbledore wheezed.

"Sorry. I see a flash of gold and it's almost a reflex. Blame Oliver Wood. He's the one who trained me to do that."

The old man's eyes twinkled. "It's okay, Harry. How are you feeling?"

Harry did a mental self-check. "I've still got all my fingers and toes, don't I?" Dumbledore nodded. "Well, then I guess I'm fine. What happened to Quirrel?"

"He's dead. Now, you must understand, Harry, you're not responsible for his death."

"Yes I am. And frankly, I don't feel much guilt over it."

Harry could see the worry in Dumbledore's eyes. "You don't?"

"No. It was his bloody choice – sorry, professor – to throw in with Voldemort. Once he did that, he lost any chance for pity."

"I see. Well, Harry, you must understand that things aren't always in black and white. There are always shades of gray–"

"But this wasn't one of those shades. This was evil, plain and simple." Harry opened a Chocolate Frog, seizing the little bastard before it could hop away and popping it in his mouth. He looked at the card inside- Dumbledore. As he read the card, something sparked in his brain. "Sir? What happened to the Stone?"

"It has been destroyed."

Harry was floored. "Why on earth would you do that?"

"Because otherwise, Voldemort might try to steal it again."

"…You could have just put out word that the Stone was destroyed, you know. It would have been simple enough to convince him that it no longer existed. Obviously, he's not the brightest crayon in the box, so he probably would have gone for it. And if not, he would have had to spend the time to check all the other stuff that he thought might have been lies." Harry shook his head, before continuing. "So, does this mean that the Flamels will die now?" Dumbledore nodded, his face solemn.

"Unfortunately, yes. Although they have enough Elixir of Life stored up to set their affairs in order, eventually yes, they will die."

"Ah, bugger…Sorry, professor," Harry said. "Was it your choice or theirs to destroy it?"

"It was Nick's choice. Frankly, I think he's had it with this life."

"What?"

"Maybe it would be best if he explained…" Dumbledore stood, his joints creaking, and went to the door. "Nick?" A kindly-looking old man with a beard to rival Dumbledore's strode into the room. Harry knew he was at least five times Dumbledore's age, but the man's posture was straight, his cheeks were rosy, and Harry could see a sharp intellect behind his blue eyes.

"Harry Potter, I believe?" Harry nodded, and the man shook his head, mildly surprised. Every time he had been introduced to someone, their eyes had automatically slid up to his scar. Flamel's eyes had remained rooted on his. "Just want to thank you for saving my Stone, even if it has been destroyed. Let me rephrase that. I want to thank you for keeping the Stone out of Voldemort's hands."

Harry shrugged. "It was no problem. Ten thousand in small bills, and we'll call it even." The man threw back his head and roared with laughter, and Harry could see Madam Pomfrey shoot him a dirty look, even though Harry and his guests were the only ones in the hospital wing. "Sir? May I ask why you wanted to destroy the Stone?"

Nick's eyes grew dark. "It was a necessary act. We had to keep Voldemort from getting his undead paws on it, and besides, I'm not such a fan of this life anymore anyway."

"But why did you have to destroy it?"

"Because unless it was destroyed, my wife and I would indeed continue living forever. We're tied to the Stone, just as much as it is to us."

"But…eternal life! You could have taken on Voldemort alone and won!"

"Look kid, eternal life ain't all it's cracked up to be! When you get to be six hundred and sixty-five, you find out that sometimes, death is a good thing! When you wake up each morning and lose ten percent of your body weight in your good-morning piss, you start to wonder if you might be better off dead. And then there's the hair and teeth falling out, organs complaining to you, watching your newest generation of friends die…and don't even get me started on the liver spots. I stay out too long and I immediately turn brown. And I won't even mention the sagging bits and pieces…"

"Enough!" Harry cried, wishing for a quick Memory Charm. "I think I've heard more than I want to about that."

"I know. That was the plan."

"You still could have fought off Voldemort."

"At best, all I could have hoped for against Voldemort would be a stalemate, and that's only because of my circumstances."

"Right. You'd think you guys could have figured out something. And what'd Mrs. Flamel have to say about this?"

Flamel scoffed. "She's just as bloody sick of this world as I am, if not more. When you know the Kama Sutra back to front and have used it so much that even that has gotten boring, you tend to look for other things to interest yourself. She's plum run out of things to interest herself with." The example of preservation in front of Harry sighed. "When all your friends, the friends you made after them, and the three generations of friends after that have all died, you find more and more reason to dislike the world you're in. I'm bloody ready to die. I think Mrs. Flamel is too."

"Alright…but you couldn't have just…"

"No, no we couldn't. If we had left it to you, it still wouldn't have worked."

"Oh, all right. You win."


	2. Patrick Hunter, The Man Who Fights

We've all seen stories where Harry is wrongfully imprisoned. But what about one where he actually commited a murder?  
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Nobody believed I did it. At least, nobody among my friends did. But I did do it. In retrospect, I probably should have killed someone more important. I didn't lodge any appeals, didn't ask for a trial, just let them cart me off to Azkaban. As they took me out of the courtroom, Hermione was practically hanging off me, sobbing, until they dragged her away.

I spent the next two and a half years in Azkaban. Not rotting in Azkaban, as Fudge declared I would after proclaiming me guilty after a ten-minute trial. But really, even if Umbridge WAS his mistress, could you blame me for killing her? Could you? At least with a straight face?

Unfortunately, Fudge didn't see it that way. To him, this was his chance to eliminate one of the two people who were most vocal about Voldemort's return. Not that I really care about old Mouldyshorts now. Two and a half years in the unhappiest place on earth will really change your priorities. Not that the dementors affect me anymore. Within the first week, I turned my cell into a null zone where the dementor's influence wouldn't reach. I also put up a permanent glamour in front of my cell, creating the illusion that I was sitting in the corner, wasting away like a good little inmate.

I've spent the last two and a half years planning and preparing for my escape. The first plan, featuring a drill made from parts I could gather, died a rather fast death the first week. Not only is there no shop available to the prisoners, they don't even give us real food. The inmates are fed by minor nourishment charms cast on each cell. Just enough to keep us alive so we're aware enough to lose our minds to the dementors. So, escape by Muggle means was out. At least getting out of my cell that way.

The second idea has a better chance of success. Partially because they don't know I'm still lucid and healthy, partially because I'm Harry Fucking Potter. I spend my time practicing wandless, nonverbal magic or working out. Or both. If one could see past the layers and layers of glamours and illusions on the front of my cell, they'd see that my clothes are still well-kept, my cell is well-lit and warm, and I've gained significant muscle mass.

Well, after a quick _Tempestas_ spell, I've decided tonight's the night. The tide is out, the winds are down, and the water is a rather balmy four degrees Celsius. With those conditions, I might just survive. Either way, it would be more interesting than sitting here examining my navel day after day.

Might as well get started. Send out a magic pulse to bounce off the dementors and guard…he's on the other side of the cell block. Great. Reach out with a probe of magic, prod the lock into the open position…and the doors open. Even better. Now, just have to actually get off my arse and push open the door.

First time I've been out in this cellblock since they brought me in. But then, nobody who's not innocent ever leaves this prison alive and survives more than two or three months, except for Bellatrix. Something to do with long-term dementor exposure. Poisons your very system, saps your soul from a distance. But then, Bella's a soulless bitch anyway, so she didn't have anything to lose.

And the guard's coming…still coming…he's in range. Push the probe of magic into his spine, squeeze his brain stem…he's down and out. Conscious, but unable to move. Nobody will ever know why he can't move. Too bad none of them watched _Young Frankenstein_…for a Yank, Mel Brooks ain't half bad. Oh, here come the dementors. I'd feel sorry for them if that wasn't what they wanted.

In my many months of confinement, I practiced Transfiguration enough to be better than McGonagall at it. I managed to turn some dirt in my cell into glass containers for copies of happy memories. In essence, I created memory grenades. Now's the first test. Toss one at a dementor…I think it sensed it coming. It swallowed it.

Well, the blast just knocked me on my ass. Apparently my memories, when confined, pack quite a punch. There's no trace of the dementor. Hell, no trace of anything. The blast cored out a perfect sphere for six feet in any direction. The two inmates who were brought in a couple days ago are making a run for it. Good. They'll suspect the escape was their idea, not the plan of someone who's been here thirty-plus months.

Guess it's time to leave. Toss two more of those memory grenades into the front hall. Wait for the blasts to stop, then stroll in. Crush the front door with a pulse of magic, out into the rain. Bring up the defensive charms I had prepped. Warming charms, drying charms, enough so that the rain actually evaporates and dissipates before it even touches my clothes.

Cast a bubble-head charm on myself and dive into the water, then extend the charm so I'm standing in the bubble. A quick motivation spell and I'm rocketing through the water, just under the surface. Set a general direction for England, and start working on my appearance. After all, everyone knows Harry Potter, The Boy-Who-Lived, but who'll know Patrick Hunter, The Man-Who-Fights-Because-Everyone-Else-Is-A-Sheep? I left enough enchantments and spells on my cell that it'll be months before anyone figures out I'm gone.

Read, Review. Should I continue?


	3. Pain In My Undead, SoulReaping

Description: We have all seen the fics where Harry dies and finds out he let too many people die. Here's a different tack. Yet another one of my sugar-induced plot bunnies. Rated M for language. One-shot.

Intro: Harry has lived a full life and finds out a few things about himself. Yet another one of my sugar-induced plot bunnies. Blame my friends for giving me so much sugar. DH semi-compliant. It starts out a bit sad, but roll with it- my story gets better.

Harry slowly walked down Diagon Alley, his cane poking at the cobblestones. For a one-hundred-and-ninety-year-old man, the fact that Harry was walking at all was astounding.

"But as the late Madam Pomfrey said, I never did follow the rules of medicine," Harry wheezed. A few passers-by gave him strange looks, but it was understandable. After a hundred and seventy years, nobody really remembered who the Boy-Who-Lived was or what he did. He was the last one left. Ron had died almost sixty years ago, Hermione lasting another twenty before passing away to join her husband. Luna and her husband had been killed over a hundred years ago, mere seconds after finally discovering a Crumple-Horned Snorkack. Actually, they had discovered two, but the things were nasty buggers when they were mating. Neville and Hannah had lived long and happy lives, passing the Leaky Cauldron on to their children. All that was left of that Hogwarts generation was the Boy-Who-Lived. And, of course, his wife Ginny.

However, even that looked unsure at the moment. Ginny was in the hospital, and it looked as if her time in this world was coming to an end. Harry had been at her bedside for the last month as her health slowly declined, leaving only when absolutely necessary. She had finally told him to leave, and he had taken the opportunity to clear his head, deciding to see the sights of Diagon Alley once more.

As he passed the local Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Harry stopped and thought about what had happened to the Weasley family. Arthur and Molly had died mere months after the final battle. Bill had suffered complications from his Lycanthropy condition and had died, after which Fleur had returned to France. Charlie had died as he had wanted to die, among his dragons. Percy had simply vanished off the face of the earth after the final battle, and was presumed dead. After Fred's death, George had lost much of his inspiration, and his products had suffered as well.

The two youngest Weasleys were perhaps the most successful, long-term: Ginny had Harry, and with Hermione's pushing, Ron had become head of the Auror Department in a matter of years. To their great disappointment, it had been discovered that Hermione was barren which had led to no small number of cracks about her carrying all those heavy books around at Hogwarts. Harry and Ginny's only child had moved to Australia to get away from the inevitable notoriety of being the son of the Boy-Who-Lived. He sent them a Christmas card every year, but it had still broken Ginny's heart when the boy had left.

As Harry continued walking down the alley, an owl swooped into view and dropped a letter, which sailed perfectly into his hand. He felt a spell on the envelope and broke the wax seal with pressure from his thumb. The letter opened and began to speak in an official voice.

"Mr. Potter, this is Healer Castor from St. Mungo's. If you could please…" Harry didn't wait to hear the rest before turning on his heel and Apparating directly into Ginny's room, nearly knocking a Healer to the floor.

"What's going on." He wheezed, leaning on his cane.

"Mr. Potter, your wife is dying." Harry felt a pressure behind his eyes start to grow.

"How long does she have?"

"Not long. Hours, maybe less." Harry brushed a Healer out of the way and gazed upon his wife's face. The hair was the same, but Ginny's skin had grown waxy from the sickness that was taking her life.

"Hi, Gin." She smiled, and Harry did as well in spite of himself. "How are you feeling?"

"About as well as I feel," She croaked, dragging a hand across her lips. "In other words, like shit. How long do the Healers say I have?"

"They say you're going to be just fine." She laughed, and Harry felt a pang go through him as he heard the rasping sound of fluid in her lungs.

"Bullshit. I'm old and dying, but I'm not quite deaf yet."

"Hours, at most. Ginny…" She held up a hand.

"Save it, Harry. You always were the last one to hang on. The Boy-Who-Lived. The Jackass-Who-Won't-Bloody-Die-Already." Harry laughed, and he saw a bit of the mischievous sparkle back in Ginny's eyes. "So, where's the firewhiskey?" When Harry stared at her, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a bit of a struggle. "I am entitled to a last drink, aren't I?" Harry shrugged, before rooting around in the bedside cabinet and finding the bottle of liquor that was standard issue in all St. Mungo's rooms.

"Never understand why they put this in here…" He poured them each a drink.

PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR PIMUSR

Harry tossed back another shot, feeling more lightheaded than he had in forty years. Ginny took a look at her shot glass, set it aside, and took a swig straight from the bottle. "Well, I think its time to cash in. Time to…it was cut the bullshit that the Muggles said, right?" Harry nodded. "Good. Let's cut the bullshit, then. Goodbye, Harry, I'll always love you." She pulled the covers up to her chin. "See you eventually, I guess." She closed her eyes, and her breath exhaled slowly. Harry sat there for a moment, unsure if she was really dead or just messing with him. He reached out and felt for a pulse, finding nothing. Then he felt a searing pain in his arm, pressure in his chest and a roaring in his ears…and then nothing.

Harry sat up, surprised mostly at the fact that he could sit up without most of his bones creaking in protest. He looked down and found himself looking as he had at forty.

"Oh, bloody buggering hell…"

"This is what most people call the Ground Floor, actually." Harry spun, finding himself face-to-skull with none other than the Grim Reaper himself. The figure spoke with a thick Brooklyn accent.

"Oh, fuck."

"Lemme just head you off. Yes, you're dead. Heart attack. Ginny's in Heaven. No, Sirius is not in Hell, although he does make frequent trips down there. Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, everyone else who fought for the light, in Heaven. Voldemort got his own circle of Hell. Any other questions?" Harry's mouth flapped open and closed a few times, before he shook his head. "Good. Now, you and I have a lot to talk about." Death stepped back a few paces, before taking a deep breath and shouting. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you've given me? Do you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Your obsession with saving people! Each and every time someone around you was meant to die – Hermione, Ron, Fleur's sister Gabrielle, Ginny in your second year, Sirius in your third, Katie and Ron in your sixth – you prevented them from dying!"

"I'm sorry. Was it that bad?"

"You almost put me out of business! I could forgive you saving Cedric from Krum, because he died anyway, but it was still damn annoying! Every damn time!"

"But I didn't mean to-"

"You didn't mean to? Oh, of course not! You've been the biggest pain in my undead, soul-reaping arse since Hitler! But you didn't mean to, so it's all good!"

Harry had had about enough of this. "Now look. I don't particularly care about being a pain in your ass. So whatever you're going to do, get it over with."

The skull's grin somehow grew even larger. "Oh, good. I was hoping you'd ask that." From within his robes, Death pulled a long pole with a curved blade at the end. He raised it above his head, and Harry's eyes widened as Death gripped the scythe. Harry rolled to the side as Death brought the weapon down, before running. He heard the Grim Reaper running along behind him and ducked another swing from the scythe.

"How long do we have to do this?"

"Until the end of time!"

"Oh, damn."


	4. The Greater Good

Description: What if Fudge was right about Dumbledore wanting to take over the Ministry? Yet another one of my sugar-induced plot bunnies. Rated M for violence and language. The scene starts in Order of the Phoenix where Dumbledore is about to flee Hogwarts.

"I have no intention of going to Azkaban, quietly or not."

"Enough of this!" Umbridge hissed at Fudge. "Take him!" There were several flashes and Harry dropped to the ground, casting a Shield Charm around himself as spells flew around Dumbledore's office. The spells stopped shooting around and Harry looked up. Umbridge, Fudge, Dawlish, and Kingsley were lying unconscious on the floor. Dumbledore was standing behind his desk, his eyes twinkling. "If they wanted to arrest me, they should have brought more firepower with them. Dawlish is nothing in a fight, and I know Kingsley wouldn't hit me deliberately."

Harry grinned. "I knew they couldn't take you down, sir. But what do we do now? Modify their memories?"

"Not much we can do, Harry. We can modify their memories, but that will only buy us some time. Madame Umbridge obviously sent Cornelius here a letter that brought him here."

"So summon the letter, sir." Dumbledore looked confused for a moment. It was a scary look. "They wouldn't have had time to make the letter Unsummonable, if that's even possible." Recognition dawned on his face, and Dumbledore waved his wand. A moment later, a letter written on light pink paper whizzed through the window. Dumbledore looked at it, before stowing it in his desk.

"Well, that's taken care of. I'll modify their memories, before we send them on their way. You can go now, Harry. I trust you won't tell anyone else about this."

Harry left, happy that they had succeeded in keeping the Ministry from removing Dumbledore. He stepped into the Gryffindor Common Room and spotted Hermione and Ron sitting in a corner, talking quietly. Ron spotted him and waved him over, pushing out a seat for him. Harry plunked down in the seat.

"So what happened, Harry?"

"Dumbledore knocked them out, wiped their memories."

Ron snorted, but Hermione was aghast. "Why?"

"Because they were going to try to arrest him on charges of treason."

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The trio walked down the darkened hall later that night on Prefect duty. The only notable thing about this event was that while Hermione and Ron were actually supposed to be there, Harry was under his Invisibility Cloak. After Ron and Hermione had caught Malfoy holding a terrified first-year at wandpoint, they had asked Harry to come along with them in case they needed backup. Harry had gratefully accepted – otherwise he would just be sitting in the Gryffindor tower, bored silly. He now accompanied them, carrying a rucksack full of gear, prototype pranks from the Weasley twins. He had everything from shield-enchanted items of clothing to miniature recorders, which were a bit like Muggle camcorders except they were about the size of a marble and recorded everything within sight, as opposed to the narrow view that camcorders usually got.

They passed the staff lounge, and Harry heard his name mentioned and stopped short, leaving Hermione and Ron to continue down the hall. Harry stepped closer to the slightly opened door and listened. What he heard shook his entire world to its core. His hands shaking, he activated one of the recorders and held it close to the door, praying that it would work. When he had heard all he could bear, he deactivated it with a tap from his wand and stole away, fighting back tears.

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"Alright Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione said, an angry edge in her voice. After catching up with them, Harry had dragged them to the Room of Requirement without a word. Instead of replying, the Boy-Who-Lived pulled the recorder from his pocket and activated it. McGonagall's voice emanated from the tiny device.

"So he modified their memories, put them under the Imperius, and sent them on their merry way!" There was tinny laughter in the background. "And the boy was none the wiser. Albus could have murdered Dawlish in cold blood and that idiot boy Harry would have believed he did it for a good reason!"

Flitwick's voice came in. "If you ask me, he should have. The man's hardly a speed bump in a fight, but it'd be useful to have him out of the way before we move on the Ministry."

Another voice came in. "Well, either way, having the children clear the way for us will help."

Hermione gasped. "That's Professor Vector!" Ron shushed her gently.

Snape's smooth voice came on. "Yes. They have so many Ravenclaws in that group and none of them has figured it out. They do not realize that the only reason they had not been found yet was that Albus kept Imperiusing Umbridge and her informants to look in other places. If that blasted Edgecombe girl had not ratted them out, they never would have been found. She'll be dealt with."

McGonagall answered. "Oh really? How are you planning to make her a non-issue, Severus?"

"Well, it seems that tomorrow we will be mixing an antidote to a Shrinking Solution, which causes things to inflate rather rapidly. Ms. Edgecombe's potion will mysteriously explode, and her airways will swell from the potion. She will die before anyone can help her."

"How tragic," McGonagall said, and laughter echoed around the room.

"So when do we move on the Ministry?" Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, asked.

"As soon as the children are ready," Snape replied. "If I had my druthers they'd have been whipped into shape months ago, but we must keep them thinking that they're acting independently by doing this."

The recording ended, and Harry sat back, unable to speak. Hermione's face was ashen, and Ron looked about ready to throw up.

"I thought we were doing the right thing…that we were fighting to keep ourselves safe," She murmured, her eyes watering. "Instead, we were preparing ourselves and other students for a takeover of the Ministry by Dumbledore…"

"So what do we do?"

"You do nothing." A voice said. The trio spun, finding Remus standing at the door. "There's nothing you can do. Except run."

"Gryffindors don't run," Ron said.

"Well, then perform a tactical retreat. Just get the hell out of here. Go to ground in the Muggle world. Leave the country. You can't beat Albus and the staff."

"But we can come back! We can come back with the full fury of the Ministry and the Auror Corps behind us!"

"They'll make it disappear, don't you see?" Remus said, his eyes pleading. "Who are the people going to believe? The Leader of the Light? Or one deranged boy and a useless government?"

"But we can do this together! You and us!" Remus shook his head.

"No." He reached into his pocket and Harry tensed, until he pulled out a long quill. "This is a Portkey to my house. Go there; take my car and the money that is there. Get out of here while you still can!"

"But we can win this, Remus! We can do this if you're with us! You, Sirius, us and the Ministry! We can beat them!"

He shook his head sorrowfully and held out the Portkey. "To activate it, press the cap three times."

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Harry was jolted awake as the car went over a bump. "Sorry, Harry." Hermione pulled over to the side of the road and rubbed her eyes. "I'm getting too damn tired to drive this thing safely."

"So let's switch. You can take a kip and I'll drive."

"No, we're low on gas anyway. I'll fill up, and then we'll switch. Where's a service station?" Harry consulted the map they had purchased, and spotted a service station close ahead of them.

"Two miles ahead, at the next town. Let's go."

The station was dimly lit, with a thin, pale clerk behind the counter. The man had bags under his eyes and a twitch in his hand.

"Is that everything? Sir?" Harry turned, and spotted a rack of action movies. He saw The Rock, Eraser, and Broken Arrow, and felt something harden within him. "Sir? Sir? Is there anything I can do for you?" Harry turned back, his jaw set.

"No. This is something I have to do myself," Harry said, his voice cold. He walked to the sunglasses rack and picked out three pairs, along with a few other items, and slapped them and several more pounds down on the counter.

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Argus Filch had spent most of his adult life at Hogwarts, cleaning up after those damned kids. He hated Muggles, but as a Squib, stood no chance of making any other sort of life in the Wizarding world. He went down to the gates and unlocked them, breathing in the fresh air. "Another day in the world." He turned and spotted three dark figures standing just inside the gates, all wearing black jeans, leather jackets, and dark sunglasses. "Who…" One of them stepped forward, and he recognized him, spinning and drawing breath to yell for help just as Harry swung and knocked him to the ground.

They tied him up quickly. "What are you going to do, Potter?" He spat. "Just walk in, and arrest the whole castle?"

Harry turned and removed his sunglasses, and Filch felt a shiver go down his spine. The normally warm green eyes had gone ice cold. The man spoke in a harsh voice. "Not exactly."

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George Weasley stepped back and wiped his forehead. The newest and (in some people's opinions) most dangerous batch of product was done. He turned, and found Fred and three figures dressed all in black standing behind him. "Merlin, Fred, who are they?" He recognized the group. "What's wrong with you?" Harry slammed the recorder down on the counter and hit play.

When it was done, George sat down and pulled a bottle of firewhiskey from under the workbench. "So that's why you're back? To take them down?" Ron nodded, and George took a pull directly from the bottle. "How can I help?" His little brother grinned, and George felt a shiver go down his spine. Not of fear, but of anticipation. The better-looking Weasley twin appreciated seeing good pranks in action. Or, as the case may be, a good ass-kicking.

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The trio stepped into the staff lounge, where the entire Hogwarts staff was eating, and all conversation ceased immediately. Not because they were expected, but more because Harry had blown the doors clean off their hinges, sending them crashing to the floor. The trio walked in, carrying backpacks.

Harry spoke, his voice clear and cold. "Morning."

The three dove for cover as the teachers drew their wands and began firing spells.

"I'm beginning to think this was a bad idea!" Ron shouted over the explosions.

"We can't take them all at once!" Hermione yelled.

Harry fired a blasting curse over the table he was using for cover and thought for a moment before yelling back. "Right! Head for the second floor, we'll draw them out before taking them down! Count of three, we make a break for it!"

"One!"

"Two!" Harry tossed a ball of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, and they ran for the door, dodging curses. They slammed the door shut behind them and sealed it with a _colloportus_.

"Three!" They ran for the second floor, where they stopped to catch their breath.

There was an earth-shaking explosion. "I think they're out," Ron said, rather unnecessarily.

"Right. We go with the plan." They all pointed their wands at each other and incanted a spell, sending off several copies of them running down the halls in groups – illusions designed to buy them time. "Any idea where they'll be?" Harry pulled the Marauder's Map from his pocket and checked it.

"Where they always are. In their classrooms."

"Who's first?" Ron asked, bent double.

"Who's closest?" Harry glanced at the map.

"McGonagall." Ron stood up straight.

"Let's go, then." They donned various items of clothing, all enchanted with Shield Charms.

Ron blew in the door of McGonagall's classroom and tossed in a small, rounded object that was given to them by the Weasley twins. There was an eye-searing flash and a massive bang, and they rushed into the room, to find McGonagall weaving unsteadily, rubbing her eyes.

Harry leveled his wand at her. "_Stupefy_!"

Nothing happened. "Shit. Anti-magic wards." As he spoke, he noticed several desks were missing, just as an angry Chimera stepped out from McGonagall's office. "Fuck. Um…new plan." He ducked a flying pounce from the creature.

"What is it?"

"Get around the bloody angry Chimera and take out McGonagall!" He ran forward, jumping and bouncing off a desk before soaring clear over the Chimera. McGonagall's vision cleared just in time to see Harry's boot collide with her face. Harry's momentum kept him moving forward, although he was off-balance now, and went tumbling into McGonagall's office. He saw the Chimera miss Ron by a hair and spin around, spot him lying in a heap, and run for him. Out of reflex, Harry's arm whipped up and he incanted a Blasting Curse. To his utter shock, the spell worked, and the room was misted with the vaporized heads of a Chimera.

"Harry, there's only one other wizard in history who has killed a chimera. And he fell off his winged horse right afterwards."

"Great. Another bloody thing I'll be famous for. Ron, if anyone asks, you saved me from that thing. Who's up next?"

"Flitwick and Snape are both down in the dungeons. Snape's classroom."

"Great. Both dueling experts at once. Where are the others?"

"Dumbledore is in his office, probably shitting his pants. Vector, Babbling, and Sinistra are in the Great Hall, probably telling the students that we've gone insane. Pomfrey and Pince are in their respective offices, and Sprout is out in the greenhouses."

"Great. Poison Ivy is out with her plants. Wonderful."

"Oh. And Binns is in his classroom. I don't think he even knows what is going on."

They ran for the dungeons, stopping outside Snape's classroom. Harry pulled another Weasley gadget out, this one a simple small mirror on a bendable stalk. He poked it around the corner.

"Are they in there?"

A Blasting Curse shot around the door and snatched the mirror out of his hands. "I'd say so."

They stood and strode into the room. Harry adopted a dueling pose opposite Snape, while Ron and Hermione did the same against Flitwick.

"Ready, Professor." Snape sneered and spun, unleashing a barrage of curses at him. Harry stood and waited patiently as the curses flew towards him, before skidding off his shields. He spun and fired his own salvo, splitting Snape's wand lengthwise and destroying it. A barrage of Banished desks forced the man back, before Harry spun and saw Ron flying through the air, blood flying from his mouth. Harry sent a cutting curse and sliced Flitwick's hand off at the wrist, before searing it with a flame spell.

"Arrogant Bastard!" Harry heard, and ducked a cutting curse from Snape. He fired a single spell, sending a ball of water six feet across flying at Snape at over forty miles an hour.

"Greaseball," He sneered.

"STOP!" A male voice roared, and Harry spun to find Hagrid striding forward, his face flushed. "Harry, yeh may not be a man of our ways, but surely you're a man of peace!"

"I may not be a man of your ways, Hagrid, but I know right, and I know wrong, and I have the good grace to know which is which."

Hagrid stared at him a moment. "Ahhh, sod off, kid." He whipped up his crossbow and fired a single bolt into Harry's chest, sending him flying back into Snape's potions cabinet.

Hermione fired a barrage of spells, none of which impacted Hagrid. Then, they were not meant to. A large section of ceiling came down and knocked the half-giant cold.

"I think that bastard knocked out a molar." Ron spat a mouthful of blood off to the side. "I'm fine. Harry? You alright?" Harry sat up, pulled himself out of the barrel of eel's testicles, and pulled the bolt out of his jacket. The layers of leather had absorbed the bolt's energy and saved his life. As Harry _Scourgify-_edhimself and walked over, muttering something about "never being clean again".

"I'm just dandy. Just decided to take a dip in a barrel of eel's bollocks. Let's get out of here."

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Harry, Ron, and Hermione sent well-aimed "_Reducto_"s into the Great Hall's doors, sending them crashing to the ground. They strode into the Great Hall.

Sinistra, Babbling, and Vector stood there, wands ready.

"Freeze!" They spun, seeing Dumbledore standing at the entrance to the Great Hall. "Don't make a move, Harry. Ms. Granger, Mr. Weasley." At the same time, Hermione, Ron, and Harry each drew a second wand and leveled them at Dumbledore.

"Alright people, now's your time to make a bloody choice," Harry said, his voice raised. "Those of you in the DA know that we were training to keep ourselves protected against Voldemort. Well, it turns out Dumbledore was manipulating us on some level. We were actually training to be cannon fodder for Dumbledore's and the Hogwarts staff's assault on the Ministry. Turns out that old bat Umbridge was right. You don't believe me?" Harry pulled the recorder from his pocket and activated it. "Take a listen to this."

The recording played. At the end, Dumbledore's face was ashen. "Are you really going to believe this boy?"

The entire crowd tensed, and Harry was stunned when Malfoy stood. "Maybe he's not as insane as people think, sir. Maybe you are. Maybe it's time to give it up, sir. We know you're good, but can you take on a thousand or so students at once?"

His eyes darted around a moment. "You bloody idiots!" Dumbledore fired a spell into the air and ran, leaving a shimmering field behind him in the doorway. Several stunners bounced off the shield and ricocheted into the walls. That end closed, the trio turned back to the three professors, who suddenly found themselves with hundreds of wands on them.

After a moment's struggle, the teachers were subdued and bound (Hermione sniffled a bit as Vector, her favorite teacher, had to be knocked unconscious as she was tied up.

That taken care of, Ron turned to Harry. "What'cha thinking?"

Harry donned his sunglasses once again. "Greenhouse?"

"Fuck yeah."

As one, every student who could get a clear shot at the door leveled his or her wand or wands and incanted "_Reducto_!" Almost a thousand spells flew towards the entrance, but not towards Dumbledore's shield. Instead, they blasted away the doorframe and the wall next to the door, opening a massive hole. Harry ran forward and thrust his arm through to make sure, and then turned back. "Good work everybody! Alright. Everyone who's not a fifth-year or above, clear out. Head back to your dorms, barricade the entrance, and wait for a Ministry official to show up. Listen to your DA-trained housemates. They'll know what to do if trouble shows up." With some grumbles and groans, they filed out, leaving a bit more than four hundred students behind. "Non-DA Ravenclaws!" A good hundred students stood. "Head down to the dungeons and collect professors Flitwick and Snape. Non-DA Hufflepuffs!" Another hundred stood. "Go get Professor McGonagall from her classroom, and watch out for the Chimera corpse that's in there. Be careful – there's anti-magic wards over the classroom, but not the office. Slytherins!" A larger group stood this time as the others filed out. "I need half of you to take posts around the castle and the roof and watch for trouble. The other half, stay here with the other students and keep watch on the professors. If anything happens, shoot off red sparks." They filed out, leaving most of the DA behind. "DA members? You're with us."

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The DA skidded to a halt outside Greenhouse 6, which housed the most dangerous plants in the school.

"Lemme take a look." Neville ran inside.

"Don't go in on your own!" Susan Bones said.

"Don't worry, he knows what he's doing," Ron said confidently. Neville came flying back through the wall of the greenhouse.

He got up and brushed the glass off his robes. "Okay, new plan. You guys deal with Sprout; I'll take care of the plants."

"Plants?" The Weasley twins asked. The Devil's Snare's vines came out from the greenhouse and wrapped around Neville's wrists, yanking him inside the building. "Oooh," They said in unison.

Harry poked his head around the door and yanked back sharply as a spine, its tip dripping with venom, came shooting past his head. "Shield Charms, everyone." After everyone applied Shield Charms, they rushed into the Greenhouse, firing stunners and flame spells at anything that moved and was not human. Harry spotted Sprout ducking around the corner of a workbench and moving towards a shelf of pots. His eyes widened as he saw one of the pots tremble. "She's going for the Mandrakes! Watch out!" He fired a _Reducto_ towards the shelf and brought it down on top of Sprout, thankfully not shattering any of the pots. With Sprout dealt with, the students subdued the plants, mostly by well-applied usage of the _Incendio_ spell. A few plants survived the carnage as Neville beat them into submission rather than kill them. As Harry eyed the Devil's Snare from his first year, which had been tied into various knots by Neville, Hermione and Ron toasted the last plant, a Venomous Tentacular that had been hell-bent on eating Lavender Brown.

"So what now?" Ron asked, wiping burned mulch off his jacket.

"No idea. Where's the bloody map…" Harry fished the map from his pocket and searched for Albus Dumbledore. Nothing. "Damn. He's gone. Where would he go?"

A spark lit up in Hermione's eyes. "I know where he is."

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The DA pushed their way into the Hog's Head, scaring out the few customers. The bartender glared balefully at Harry, until he found himself on the business end of about forty wands. Harry took off his sunglasses and stared at the man. "Where's your brother, Aberforth?" The man gulped and shook his head, and Harry's wand twitched, sending the man's facial hair dropping to the floor. "The next one takes off your nose. Then we move to the eyes. Then the hands, feet, and then I'll get a hammer and go after the major joints." Aberforth pointed upstairs. "Good boy." Harry flicked his wand again, and Aberforth dropped to the ground, snoring.

"Alright. It is a bit cramped upstairs, so we can't all go. Neville, FredandGeorge, Ron, Hermione, you are with me. Everyone else, keep an eye on the outside of the building. If any of you know how to start an anti-Apparation ward, now would be the time to speak up. A few Ancient Runes students raised their hands, and Harry sent them on their way, before donning his sunglasses once more. "Let's finish this."


	5. Harry's Last Stand

Description: This was honestly an idea (I hesitate to call it that) that I had after reading articles on Cracked. Seeing where the inspiration is coming from, one can tell it's AT, AU-ish, obviously does not follow canon, and obviously should not be read by anyone who wants to see a decent piece of literature. If anyone wants to see the inane ramblings of a deranged mind, however…

Disclaimer: If you think this was written by J.K. Rowling, then you're on way more drugs than any one person should take.

Harry's Last Stand took place during the Battle of Hogwarts in 2007, when he essentially curbstomped an entire army into submission by himself. Apparently, some local Dark Lord had gotten a little pissed off sixteen years prior when he found out that he was going to be taken down by a fucking infant, and went and capped the kid's parents, before trying to snuff Harry as well.

Actually, he found out that one of two infants could have taken him down, and sent a few of his crackhead friends after the other one. Unfortunately, they misunderstood his rather specific instructions (kill the kid, kill the parents, kill the neighbors, kill the fucking birds in the trees nearby), and rather than just killing the parents, they tortured them into insanity and left the kid alone.

Unfortunately, things went just a little bit awry with Harry, and Voldemort ended up looking like the aftermath of a hippo's lunch. He wasn't dead, though. Voldemort had apparently done so much meth that evening that he couldn't be killed. So, he took a vacation to sunny Albania, where he spent the next ten years skull-fucking snakes and possessing any human that came by.

Harry was dumped with his abusive and neglectful relatives, who had the collective intelligence of a potted plant. Due to this, he began to harden himself.

Voldemort eventually ended up super-glued to the back of a neurotic, sexually frustrated teacher's head and wrapped up under a turban. This was ten years after his abortive (read: totally gone-to-shit) attempt to kill Harry.

Meanwhile, Harry was accepted into the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a boarding school that most of the time made East L.A. look like Disneyland. Harry adapted to this by becoming even more ballsy and dangerous. Coincidentally, the teacher who's head Voldemort had taken up residence on worked at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Over the next six years, Voldemort proceeded to fuck with young Harry's head as much as possible. Whether it be sending annoying red-heads into his path, turning a quarter of the school into unpaid hitmen and wannabe thugs, or just plain head-fucking Harry by giving him insane visions and hallucinations, Voldemort rarely let up.

Eventually, Harry was kicked out of Hogwarts for his general balls-out attitude and failure to follow any rule that was clearly full of shit. At this point, Voldemort was still under the impression that Harry wanted anything to do with him. The boy in question had by this point endured five attempts on his life and four years of general mind fucking from Voldemort.

After realizing that he would never be as comfortable at Hogwarts as he would be on his own, Harry returned to his ancestral home in Godric's Hollow, which hadn't been rebuilt in the thirteen years since it was destroyed in the titanic battle between the most feared dark wizard of the age and a spit-bubble-blowing infant. The Badass-Who-Lived rebuilt it with his bare hands, before spending the next three years shooting up steroids and working out.

At the end of 2007, it was discovered that Voldemort was at this time still unaware that Harry had left Hogwarts three years previously, and planned an attack on the castle.

Never one to let the implication that he was someplace he wasn't go unanswered, the now-muscle-bound Harry left his home and returned to Hogwarts, just moments before the approaching Death Eater army arrived. While the students and staff of Hogwarts ran for it like the scared children that they were, Harry used magic to move Hagrid's hut in front of the gate and prepared himself. While this may not seem like much of a diversionary tactic, one must always keep in mind that the Death Eaters had among them an IQ around that of room temperature. That being said, it is easy to understand why it was a six-hour standoff between the Death Eaters and the closed door of Hagrid's hut.

It was beginning to seem like Harry Potter had gotten in over his head here. One might think he was in trouble. Well, if you know shit about Harry Potter, you know that he wasn't going to piss his pants just because a couple hundred Death Eaters were waiting to imitate the Viking's perfected method of rape, loot, pillage, and then burn.

Finally, Harry opened the door and bitch-slapped the closest Death Eaters until they moved twenty feet back from the house, where Harry drew a line in the ground and challenged them to grow the balls to cross it, before returning to the interior of the house.

When the hordes of oncoming Death Eaters approached the house, they found Harry standing at the entrance brandishing a hulking pair of swords. He challenged the group of them, daring them to fuck with him. When a few accepted and charged him, Harry made his point that he was not to be fucked with by tripping them and groin-stomping them so hard they literally coughed up their own balls.

The enemy army stood across from him, trying to figure out how the hell they were going to get past, and whenever some dumbshit managed to find the balls required to step foot on the drawbridge Harry made sure the last thing he saw was a foot-long hunk of razor sharp steel.

Failing to appreciate just how ready he was to make them look like the losing end of a bear attack and the sheer impossibility of one regurgitating one's own nads, and the badass-ness implied by causing this event to occur, the would-be assassins charged, and Harry commenced spraying the countryside with distasteful amounts of high-impact blood spatter.

After playing giant - sword -whack-a-mole with the unfortunate bastards who reached him first, Harry got pissed and started cracking necks and skulls with his bare hands. He killed at least a hundred enemies, perhaps more, before the Death Eaters, realizing that any attempts of fighting Harry like a man were going to result in an eviscerated brain pan, began to try to push over a group of bodies that he had piled up onto him. They eventually collapsed onto him, mostly crushing him under their weight.

His lower body was smashed and he was using dismembered body parts to beat his enemies when some of his former friends returned to pull his now-mostly-pancaked body from the battlefield. He was dying, but Harry didn't give a shit. He knew that dragging his half-dead ass along the ground was only keeping them from escaping, so he told his friends to prop him up against a facing the enemy. He had one of them give him a handy piece of wood to use as a bludgeon, made sure that it was usable and told his friends to get the fuck out of there while he bought them some time.

However, he did accomplish what he intended to do – he bought time for the residents of Hogwarts to escape to 'safety', where they promptly began cowering in their homes and demanding that their government arrest innocent people to keep up the appearance of action.


	6. Random Anger

Little one-shot inspired by (read: stolen from) a bunch of George Carlin sketches I was just listening to. It starts in the middle of their sixth year, when people are regularly being killed, but it skips around a little bit.

* * *

"Did you hear?" Hermione said at the Gryffindor Table one morning. "Oliver Wood's family was killed by Death Eaters."

"Oliver Wood?" Ron said incredulously. "I just wrote to him yesterday, looking for Quidditch tips!"

Harry stared at Ron a moment. "Yeah. Didn't help. They died anyway. Apparently, the simple act of your writing to Oliver did not stop the Death Eaters from killing them. In fact, it may have made them more aggressive." He gave Ron a long look. "You know, you could be responsible for his family's deaths. How do you live with yourself?"

"I don't know, Harry," Ron said dejectedly. "How long should I wait before scratching them out of my address book?"

"Oh, about six weeks or so," Harry said, biting into a sausage. "Good rule of thumb."

"What'cha doing, Ron?" Hermione said, plunking down next to the redhead in the Common Room later that day.

"Writing to Oliver to tell him I'm sorry about his parent's deaths," Ron said, not looking up from his letter. "Here's what I've got so far: Oliver, I'm so sorry to hear about the death of your parents. Look, if there's anything I can do, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask-"

"What are you going to do, a resurrection?" Hermione said. "This isn't the New Testament. What do you expect him to say? 'Well, why don't you come over this weekend, you can paint the garage! Bring your plunger, the upstairs toilet overflowed. Do you have a pickaxe and a shovel? Good, that'll come in handy; the yard needs a lot of attention."

"Whatever," Ron said, looking back at his letter. "I go on to say that I'm keeping them in my thoughts-"

"Where?" Hermione said. "Where exactly in your thoughts, do they fit? In between 'my ass hurts in this chair' and 'let's shag Lavender because she's easy'? What are your priorities?"

"Merlin, Hermione, have a heart!" Ron said. "This boy just lost his parents!"

"Aaah, they'll turn up," Hermione said, waving a hand dismissively. "You got to keep it upbeat. Give him reason to hope. You have to stay optimistic with people like that. Tell him to check in his parent's closet, they might just be having him on." She stood, stretched, and gave Ron a hard look. "I'm going upstairs to shag your best friend." She walked up the stairs with Harry in tow, leaving Ron sitting there with a confused expression on his face.

"Fuck Dumbledore," Harry said as they lay in bed afterwards. "Fuck him and his beard and his purple robes and that damn twinkle in his eyes, I'm tired of that asshole. And while we're at it, fuck Voldemort, too! There's another jack-off I can do without. I'm tired of being told who to admire and fear." He rolled over and looked at Hermione. "Aren't you tired of being told who your heroes and villains ought to be? Being told who you ought to be looking up to? I'll choose my own heroes, thank you very much." He paused a moment. "And fuck Snape, too!"

"Why?" Hermione said, snuggling against his chest.

"Part of my continuing Occlumency training. I'm working with Madame Pomfrey now. She's slightly better at teaching Occlumency, if more of an angry person inside. She said I should express my emotions, so that's what I'm doing." He exhaled slowly and looked at Hermione. "So what have you been doing since you last came to see me?"

"Well, since the last time I rolled through these parts – and I do come with frequency, don't I. I'm a bit like herpes, I keep coming back. But since the last time I came through here, I've found out that Dumbledore keeps leaving the castle for odd reasons, even though he's avoiding you. And I found out the old fuck is only ninety years old, not a hundred and sixty as he pretends to be."

"He's ninety?"

"Sixty-nine with twenty-one fingers up his ass," Hermione said assuredly.

"Well, that means he loses those advantages…" Harry muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"A really old wizard never has to carry anything heavy ever again. He can take advantage of people just by asking them, even if he's going across the damn planet. He can leave any social event early, just by saying he's tired. And, he's not responsible for anything. He could forget his brother's funeral and call Snape Agnes and get away with it."

"I can just see him looking around the Head Table one night and saying 'who are you people and where is my horse?' and messing everyone up," Hermione said. "But he can't get away with that anymore."

"Nope. Voldemort is almost seventy years old, and he's still trying to conquer the planet. What's Dumbledore's excuse?"

"I don't know. But people around here could take Voldemort without you or Dumbledore," Hermione said. "But they don't want to be realistic. People would rather stroke themselves. You know that statue in the Ministry of Magic?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I think it should be changed. A wizard standing naked at attention, and seated next to him, a witch, jerking him off. An elf, a goblin, and a centaur pointing and laughing at the two." She took a slow breath. "You have to admire the Ministry, though. They came up with a great bullshit story back in fifth year. You're a nut, Dumbledore's a nut, Voldemort's not back, the press is free, business is honest, all purebloods are equal, justice is blind, your vote counts, the good guys win, the Aurors are on your side, the Ministry is watching you, and everything is going to be just fine. The official national bullshit story."

"I call it the 'Ministry Okie-Doke' myself," Harry said, brushing her hair back. "I can't understand pure-blood supremacist attitudes, myself. Frankly, I don't know why they're proud. Pride is reserved for something you achieve on your own, not something you get by accident of birth!"

"You guys have the most interesting pillow talk I've ever heard," Seamus said from the next bed.

* * *

"Alright, everyone," Harry said, leaning on his Firebolt. "You should be here for Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts. If that's not the reason you're here, get your ass moving on out now." Several second-years scrambled as they left. "The majority of you probably know who I am for some dumb reason or another, but for those of you who don't, my name is Harry Potter. I did defeat Voldemort, and yes, he is back. Now that we've gotten the public service announcement out of the way, we can get to business. Those of you who have flown or worked with me before know that I don't usually talk about myself, that's not my style, but I think you guys should know something about me. I fly kinda recklessly, I take a lot of chances, I never repair my broom, and I don't believe in Quidditch rules. So I tend to have a high number of accidents. So, we are most definitely interested in having a backup Seeker."

Harry began pacing. "I realize that this may seem a bit harsh, but we are playing to win here, and I know that some of you may not know if you can be brutal enough during the game. So, I've selected a few stories that may inspire you. My second year, during a Slytherin-Gryffindor game, I either ran over one of their chasers, or I ran over a small troll wearing green robes riding a broom. And I don't know because I didn't stop. I never stop when I have an accident. You can't! Hey, who has time? Not me! I hit someone, I run someone over," Harry stretched out an arm in front of himself, signifying himself moving on, "I keep moving. Especially if I've injured someone. I do NOT get involved in that. I'm not a Healer; I've got no medical training. I'm just a Seeker out looking for the Snitch and I can't be stopping for everything."

"Why not?" A third year asked.

"Well, let's look at it logically, let's be logical about it. If you do stop, all you do is add to the confusion. This person you just ran over has enough problems of their own, without you stopping and making things worse! Leave these people alone! They've just been in a major broom accident! The last thing they need is for you to stop and get off your broom and go over to the fire, because by now, it is a fire, and start bothering them with a lot of stupid questions." Harry conjured a broken body on the ground, with its limbs realistically twisted and blood leaking from compound fractures. He adopted a heavy voice. "Are you hurt?" Dropping the voice, he gestured wildly at the body. "Well of course they're hurt! Look at all the blood! You just hit them at a hundred miles an hour! Of course they're hurt! Leave these people alone! Haven't you done enough?"

The people looking to try out took a few steps back.

Harry went on without noticing. "For once in your lives, do the decent thing, don't get involved. In the first place, it's none of your business. The whole thing took place off your broom. Legally speaking, these people were not on your property on the time you ran them over. They were on the Quidditch pitch, which is Hogwarts property, so you are not responsible. They don't like it? Let 'em sue Hogwarts! And besides," Harry said, dispelling the body, "it happened back there! It's over now, stop living in the past! Do yourself a favor, count your blessings, and be glad it wasn't you."

"I'd still stop," The third year said resolutely.

"I'll give you a practical reason not to stop, if you need one. If you do stop, sooner or later the teachers or Madame Hooch are going to show up. Is that what you want? Waste a lot of your time standing around filling out forms, answering a lot of foolish questions, lying to the authorities? And by the way, who are you to be taking up the time of the teachers? These people are professionals, with the exception of Professor Snape, who are supposed to be out teaching students. Stop interfering with them." Harry looked around. "And besides? Didn't anyone else see this accident? Huh? Are you the only one who can provide information? Surely the person you ran over caught a glimpse of it at the last moment! So let them tell the teachers what happened! They were a lot closer to it than you were! There's no sense in having two conflicting stories floating around about the same dumbass flying accident. Things are bad enough. People are dead, family lines have been ended, so it's time to get moving!"

"I'm the opposite way," A fourth year Muggleborn student said. "If I see an accident, one that I'm not involved in, I stop immediately. I want to get a good look at what's going on. Someone else is injured, so I want to take a look!" He looked thoughtful for a moment. "I am Curious George."

"The teacher's don't like that, they say you're rubbernecking and blocking traffic," A nasally second year said.

"Yeah, never mind that shit, I want to take a look!" The fourth year continued. "I am never too busy that I can't stop to enjoy someone else's suffering. I enjoy accidents. My favorite accidents is two Slytherins and a Ravenclaw get taken out by an out-of-control Hufflepuff and fly into the teacher's stands. Well, I want to see something interesting. I'm looking for a broom handle jammed into someone's nose. I take the time to stop, I expect a couple of bleeding laughs! And, if my broom happens to be in such a position where I can't get a good look at what's going on, can't see the bodies clearly enough, I'm not the least bit shy about asking the teachers to drag the bodies over a little closer!"

"Yeah, you'll do fine here," Harry said.

* * *

"This reminds me something my Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher said to me once," Moody said. "She said 'you show me a tropical fruit, and I'll show you a cocksucker from the jungle!'" Moody hesitated a moment. "Wait, no, that wasn't her, that was a guy I met in the army. I always mix those two up."

* * *

"What are you doing now, Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly. Ron looked up from his copy of 'Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul'.

"Reading a self-help book," the redhead said.

"Why do you need help? Life is not that complicated. You get up, you go to school, you eat three meals, you do your homework and you go back to bed! What's the fucking mystery?"

"But…" Ron began.

"And if you're looking for self-help, why would you read a book written by somebody else?" Hermione went on. "That's not self-help, that's help! There's no such thing as self-help! If you did it yourself, you didn't need help!"

"Hello, Ron," Luna said dreamily, sitting down next to Ron in the cheap plastic chair. "Are you here for the motivation seminar too?"

"Yup," Ron said weakly. "And I'm hiding from Harry and Hermione. They both seem to be so angry all the time, until they disappear for a few hours. Then they're fine." The youngest Weasley boy rubbed his neck. "I just wish I knew what they were doing."

"Why don't you ask them?" Luna said.

"I tried. Hermione said they were shagging, and I know that can't be right."

Luna shrugged, and then giggled as the buzz in the room seemed to subside. "Oh, yay! The seminar is beginning!"

The lights dimmed, and Harry stepped onstage. Ron groaned, although the rest of the room cheered.

"Why are you people here? You think you need motivation? If you lack motivation to the degree that you need to go to a seminar to be motivated by somebody else, a seminar isn't going to help you. What I think you really need is to be smashed in the head a few hundred times with a cricket bat." Harry conjured a bat and brandished it. "And I'm just the one to do that."

"How the seminar go, Harry?" Hermione asked at dinner.

"Oh, it went great. The cricket bat worked great. If it didn't motivate them, it at least got them up and moving around the room. Y'know, run for your life, hide, shit like that. Get the day rolling."

"Motivation is bullshit," Ron said through the bandages surrounding his head and the cotton balls stuffed in his mouth. "If you ask me, this place could use a little less motivation. The motivated ones are the ones causing all the trouble! Death Eaters, Dark Lords, Wizengamot members…these people are highly motivated! And anyway, it's overrated. You show me some lazy berk who laying around all day sleeping and playing chess and I'll show you someone who's not causing any damn trouble."

* * *

Bill Weasley shook his head scornfully at the Muggles in the supermarket. Fleur had sent him for a tin of oysters, and the ones she liked could only be found in a Muggle store. At the moment, the Muggle in front of him was cooing to her child that was resting in the strange device she had strapped to her chest. Bill wasn't sure if it was a side pack or a front pack or a sling of some sort that carried the baby and left the mother's hands free to sort through the food on display as well as the woman's massive purse. Bill knew what it was for, as he had gotten an O on his Muggle Studies OWL and NEWT, and had worked with Muggleborns on a regular basis to become acclimated with Muggle practices.

"Hey, Mrs. Natural Fibers," The young man called. "It's not a piece of camping equipment, it's a baby. Touch the little prick now and then; he'll thank you for it someday."

The woman scowled at him, but Bill simply shook his head and turned around, to be greeted by another infuriating sight. A man in a suit, with a wireless headset plugged into his ear and connected to his mobile phone.

"Hey, spaceman," Bill snarked, "Long as your hands are free, why don't you reach over here and fondle my balls? I'm sure that Margaret Thatcher and the Dalai Lama will understand if you put them on hold for a moment."

* * *

"Look, Tom, there's something I've been meaning to ask you," Harry said.

"What is it, boy?" Voldemort said. "Make it quick, your last words shouldn't take too long."

"Why did you change your name to Lord Voldemort?"

"Did you really think I would keep that filthy Muggle name?"

"Well, you changed it from a rather solid, manly name. Tom Riddle. To Lord Voldemort. I don't know about you," Harry said to the Death Eaters surrounding them, "But that seems a bit fruity to me. Why not a more manly name? Biff Webster, Spud Crowley, Chuck Steak? If you needed a 'Lord' in there, how about Lord Scarborough? Lord Fearsome? Give the people a suggestion, they're sheep anyway. The Dark Lord was pretty cool, but only your followers call you that. Most of the people that oppose you openly call you the Dork Lord now."

* * *

"We must not let this bill pass," Lucius Malfoy said to the other wizards gathered around him. To a man, they were Death Eaters who had avoided prison on the Imperius plea. "Otherwise, Mudbloods may gain the rights we have!"

"Ah, hell, here we go again," Harry said, kicking the door in and striding into the room, disarming the group with a wave of his wand. "You boys need to learn, there's no such thing as rights. They're a cute idea, but that's just it. Cute, and fictional. We made them up. Like the boogeyman. Babbity Rabbity. Shit like that. For instance, you believe you have the right to say anything you please. That may be, but if you say something that pisses me off, I say I have the right to kill you. What's more, we take rights away all the time. Rights aren't rights if someone can take them away. They're privileges."

"What do you mean?" Macnair said suspiciously.

"What are the three things the American Muggle government said that every man was born with a right to?"

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," Nott piped up. Lucius glared at him. "What?" the man said. "Know your enemy."

"He's right, on both counts," Harry said. "Watch me take away those rights." He waved his wand at Macnair, beheading him. "Life." He flicked his wand at Lucius, conjuring a pair of heavy manacles around his wrists. "Liberty." He pointed his wand at Lucius again and muttered a spell under his breath. Lucius screamed, and blood flowed down his trouser leg. "And happiness. I think I've made my point. Good day, gentlemen."

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry, but the bunny wouldn't leave me alone. Kept stealing my carrots, too.


	7. Did You Take a Class?

Description: This is some slightly-OOC stuff that I came up with late one night. Takes place one year after Harry kills Voldemort.

Disclaimer: If you think this was written by J.K. Rowling, then you're on way more drugs than any one person should take.

It was over, Harry repeatedly told himself. The war was over. Voldemort was dead, along with the majority of the Death Eaters. The Malfoy family had squeaked by with a hefty fine, as they had somehow convinced the Wizengamot that they had been allowing the use of their ancestral home as the base of operations for Voldemort's forces against their will. Draco was at the school, as the Wizengamot had tested the entire graduating class and declared that the majority of them had to repeat their seventh year – which obviously included the Trio, as they had been absent for all but about eight hours of their seventh year at Hogwarts.

At that moment in time, Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table during lunch, idly wondering what he was supposed to do with his life. Almost everything up until almost four months ago had been either fighting Voldemort or hiding from him. Ever since then, Harry had been simply drifting through life, without a clue as to what to do next.

"C'mon, Harry, we're going to be late for class," Ron said. The redhead blinked, confused. "I think I'm channeling Hermione…wonder what she's up to?" Hermione had been one of very few students that had passed the tests and had been able to graduate from Hogwarts. "Anyway, come on." Harry nodded silently, standing up and grabbing his bag. The two walked quietly to class.

"It's not the same," Harry said suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Ron said.

"Without Hermione here. It's not the same," Harry elaborated.

"I know what you mean," Ron said. "Is it just me, or did we seem to lose our way after the war ended? Without Hermione here, we don't seem to have the drive we used to."

"Yeah," Harry muttered, staring ahead and not even focusing on where he was going.

"Missing your Mudblood whore, Scarhead?" A voice hissed from behind them. Ron sighed.

"Malfoy, do you ever learn? Pansy is the one who's wanking people off in the Prefect's bathroom for two Galleons a pop, not Hermione. Pansy. Not Hermione. Try to keep it straight, you bloody ponce."

"Shut up, you blood traitor!" Draco growled, reaching for his wand, then yelping when it disappeared from his hand. "What the hell did you do with my wand?"

"I didn't do anything," Ron said, snickering.

"I did," Harry said tiredly, turning around and twirling Malfoy's wand between his fingers. "And once you learn how things work, you can have it back."

"I'll get you for this, Potter!" Malfoy spat.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," the three heard. They looked in the direction of the voice and found Filch standing there. "Malfoy, there's no learning curve with you, is there?"

"What are you talking about?" Ron asked curiously.

Filch pointed at Harry. "This boy, while extremely messy, has more power than you and the ginger combined," he said slowly and clearly, as one would speak to a mental deficient. "He's defeated the Dark Lord…six times?" Harry nodded, and Filch continued, "Six times, and the last time, he killed him! So what chance do you think you stand, you bloody idiot?"

"He should learn to respect his betters," Malfoy began, but Filch cut him off.

"Breeding doesn't mean shit, you knobsock!" Filch shouted.

"Did he really just call Malfoy a knobsock?" Ron asked Harry quietly. Harry nodded. "Any idea what a knobsock is?" Harry shook his head.

Ignorant of this by-play, Filch went on. "Honestly, kid, are you naturally this stupid, or did you take a class? Because I know for a fact that Potter would wipe the floor with you. Which might not be a good thing," Filch said, examining Malfoy's head, "Considering there's probably some sort of product in your hair. Grow up. The sun sets in the west, your father has sex with sheep, water is wet, Ron Weasley's a ginger, Dumbledore is dead, your fiancée's a slut, and nobody's sure whether Severus Snape was on our side or theirs during the war."

"He was on his own side, I think," Harry interjected thoughtfully.


End file.
